From the Private Journal of Wendy Briese
2-12-2015
How dare she!
How DARE she do that to Cody Kincaid!
Isabella’s done some terrible, heinous things before but this takes the cake. To LURE Mr. Kincaid into the ring for the sole purpose of attacking him under the pretense of a match. To drive a bellhammer into a DEFENSELESS man’s skull for… for WHAT? Because he told the truth about her? Because he reminded the world what a bloodthirsty psychopath she was? Even if it was all a lie (and it certainly wasn’t), how in the HELL does that merit cracking a man’s skull?
I hope to God Mr. Kincaid is okay. Herbie pulled me away for an interview about it afterwards, and by the time that was over, I couldn’t get back there. It was too crowded, and they kicked me out, telling me I’d just be in the way. They’re probably right… I know Caroline was with him, and more importantly, Scarlett. Maybe they’ll let me see him in the hospital tomorrow, once things have quieted down.
I don’t know how I’m going to get sleep tonight. I’m worried, and I’m angry. And it shames me to admit, but that second emotion is winning out right now. I know Mr. Kincaid’s going to get better. I know because he’s stronger and tougher than anyone gives him credit for. And I also know that Isabella is going to regret this day for the rest of her life. She will mourn the day she ever even THOUGHT of betraying us.
Yes, betrayal. She’s betrayed everyone. Ms. Star, Mr. Kincaid, the fans, the locker room, myself… EVERYONE. I was THERE at Unstoppable IV. I had a front row seat for the end of that show with Isabella standing in the ring, fresh off her final match, with the chants coming down like a rain of absolution. “Thank you Bella. Thank you Bella.”
I had lunch with her the next morning, and we ironed out our differences, and parted on amiable terms. I had hoped, and prayed that she’d be happy in her post-wrestling life. I was overjoyed when the news came she was with child, a practical medical miracle, from all accounts. And I believed, we ALL believed that despite every horrible thing she’d done over the course of her career, that she deserved to live happily ever after.
And now she comes back and pulls all this, culminating in what happened last night.
Thank you Bella. For absolutely NOTHING.
The woman’s a traitor. A traitor to the company. A traitor to the sport. A traitor to all of us. And we all know what traitors deserve.
Eradication.
Not her life, of course not. But the memory of her. Her existence as it pertains to this company. Banned for life. All her merchandise pulled and destroyed. Exclusion from any archival video releases, no matter how big the match. Her position in the Hall of Fame vacated. Maybe even her title reigns vacated, although maybe that’s a little ridiculous. Still, whatever we can do to scrub her from the historical tapestry of this company, we need to. It’s a fitting punishment for someone so disgraceful.
She’s going to pay for this. I swear on my own career that Isabella Pazzini’s going to pay for this.
I don’t even know how I’m going to enjoy this weekend. Terrence wants to take me to Aspen for Valentine’s day, a weekend off before the mad rush with the NASCAR season kicking off in Daytona followed by Chaos Theory. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll be calmed down enough, and willing to enjoy myself.
Heck, maybe now that I’ve vented enough, I can get some sleep.
But whatever happens in the Future, I have a feeling that when we look back on things down the road, we’ll be looking at the events of tonight as a major turning point to whatever end we get to.
May it be for the better.
-Wendy.
====================
FRIDAY FEBRUARY 20, 2015
11:38 AM EASTERN STANDARD TIME
DAYTONA INTERNATIONAL SPEEDWAY- TURN 4 INFIELD CAMPGROUND
DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA
“And fires were getting higher and it was getting hot and I could smell the smoke and I was screaming but… then I woke up.” Wendy Briese finished with a sigh. She rubbed her forehead, looking over at her manager, who simply stared back at her with a completely dumbfounded expression on his face. “…What?”
“So let me get this straight,” Pollaski sighed, an aura about him that suggested he was really hoping he was wrong. “The FCC showed up at your door. Dragged you away kicking and screaming. Tied you to a stake in the middle of the town square. And then they burned you. At the stake.”
He glanced back over at Wendy who simply nodded in response. “For cussing on television.” Another nod. “Despite the fact that we’re on CABLE and the FCC has no real jurisdiction.”
Wendy nodded a third time. “Yes,” she added, as if extra confirmation was needed.
In response, Pollaski shook his head in disgust, increasing his pace to speed ahead of his flame-haired client. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”
“I didn’t say it was RATIONAL!” Wendy protested, increasing her own pace to match Pollaski’s (not that that was any challenge). “But dreams normally AREN’T, right?”
“I dunno. Mine are pretty rational.” Pollaski countered with a shrug. “Maybe you ate something before bedtime? Or.. like, drank a bottle of hot sauce?”
“…No.” Came the flat reply, Wendy’s eyes narrowing. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you this… I should have saved it for Dr. Epstein…”
“Oh, come on,” Pollaski goaded, wisely suppressing a chuckle. “Even you gotta admit you’re probably the only person- much less wrestler- in the world who has nightmares because she dropped the f-bomb on live television.”
“I know, I know!” Wendy snapped back, rolling her eyes. She took several breaths. “Look, it bothers me because It meant I lost control, okay? And I don’t like that feeling that I lost control of myself, okay?”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to blame you. I mean… you were PISSED. And, honestly, you had every right to be after that.”
“I know. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me though,” Wendy said with a sigh. She looked up at the sky, a beautiful azure with only a smattering of puffy clouds in the higher altitudes, a far cry from the frozen wasteland that she called home that was being wracked by yet another winter storm. Here the weather was light and balmy, in the low seventies. The kind of weather she could barely fathom any city having in February.
Beyond all else, it was a perfect day to start a racing season, with it being the first practice of the NASCAR XFinity series in preparation for the next day’s Florida 300. It was her husband’s rookie year in the series, after four years in ARCA he had finally elected to make the leap to what was essentially the second tier in Stock Car racing, just below the Sprint Cup itself. Wendy of course was excited for her husband- and a little nervous.
Not to mention wondering how the family was going to deal with the fact that her husband was now racing 33 dates instead of the customary 19-20 ARCA used to run. They’d find a way, she figured. They always did.
Luckily, Theresa still seemed to view her parent’s careers- and the travel required thereof- as an adventure, whether or not she was brought along. Her teacher was a good sport at least, tolerating the occasional missed school day for her to accompany her parents- so long as her coursework was completed (which Wendy made darn sure of).
Theresa had made the trip this time, and stood perched atop the Arcanix Racing pitbox- a massive workstation that housed all the tools for the car, plus computer telemetry monitors, the teams wireless connection and a 21 inch television tuned into the coverage of the race. The entire contraption was larger than the ones Terrence’s old team used the carry- large enough to even support a covered viewing stand atop the box. Theresa was sitting in one of the chairs, but leapt up as she saw her mom coming, waving enthusiastically.
“Hey, Terr-Bear!” Wendy said, peering up at her daughter. “What are you doing up there?”
“Dad said I could!” Theresa said, immediately defensive. “Just so long as I don’t bother Gumbo.”
“Nt Bthrng M Nn” Piped in a man who sat in a chair next to her. Gumbo McCoy was Terrence’s crew chief, a broad shouldered Louisianan with tanned leathery skin from a lifetime sitting atop pit boxes on scorching July afternoons, and with a Cajun accent so thick it would have made Scarlett Kincaid herself call for an interpreter. Wendy looked at Pollaski to see if he understood, but the portly manager only shrugged. Judging by the tone, he seemed amiable about the situation, so Wendy dismissed it with a shrug.
“Just be careful. Where’s your dad, by the way?”
“Right behind you!” came a cheerful voice, and Wendy turned around to see her husband approaching, dressed in his full racesuit. “Sorry, driver’s meeting ran long,” he put his arms around his wife, and gave her a kiss. Then he looked up at his daughter, throwing his arms wide. “Theresa! Do what Daddy did to Michael Lennox after he hit Mommy with a steel chair!”
“Wait, no-“ Wendy began to protest, but was cut off as Theresa bellowed a challenge, and dove off the pit box, spreading her arms for a full body splash as she landed on her father, who caught her easily, and swung her giggling to alight feet first.
“REALLY!?” Wendy demanded, glaring at her husband. “REALLY?!??!?!”
“It’s okay Mom! We practiced!”
“REALLY!??!?!?!”
“Dnt d tht. W dnt hve th lblty nsrnc fr t.” admonished Gumbo in his grumble.
“Sorry! Ah, probably won’t be able to do that much longer anyways,” Terrence admitted. “Our little girl’s getting big. So you see the car yet?”
For a second, Wendy thought to pursue the matter of her husband encouraging her daughter to leap off nine foot platforms, but forced her indignation to go with a sigh. “No, I haven’t,” she admitted, glancing to the side at the machine her husband was going to ride in. It still sat under its tarp, which was black and pink with the number 38 and FFW logo on it, the tires the only part of the actual car peeking out from under the cover.
“Well, you will soon. They’re going to let us loose here in a few minutes. I better get strapped in. Now, where’d they stick my helmet?”
All up and down pit road, teams were ripping the covers off their machines, the cars bodies glistening in the sunlight in a spectacular myriad of colors. As two crew members hopped the wall to rip off the #38’s cover, Wendy, Pollaski and Theresa moved over to get a better look, Theresa hopping up on the pitwall herself, ignoring her mother’s warning glare.
The tarp was peeled away, and Pollaski whistled as a pitch black machine with pink trip came into view, the sun reflecting off it at a perfect angle, each sponsor decal by the front wheels shining brightly. The manager had to suppress a tear in his eye as more of the car became revealed- the numbers, the spoiler, all glistening in black and pink and looking positively perfect.
“Its…. So beautiful.” Pollaski sniffled.
Wendy wasn’t so sure about that. She was staring at the hood, her expression partly of confusion, and mostly of disgust. On the hood was the FFW and Chaos Theory logos, looking as crisp as could, but above that, dominating the hood in a place she had expected to find herself sharing with Valerie and Scarlett was…
“Wait, Stephanie Sullivan?” Pollaski apparently had just seen the picture himself. “The hell is she doing on the hood?”
Wendy was at a loss for words shaking her head, her mouth open in stunning amazement.
“Well, I’m off!” Terrence had returned, helmet under his arm. “Kiss for good luck?” He leaned leaned over to peck his daughter on the cheek, then moved to Wendy’s lips- but getting only a half-hearted return. “You okay?” he asked, not missing the lack of effort.”
“Why’s Sluttivan on the car?” Theresa demaned before Wendy could even grab an intake of breath. An intake that ultimately went to a different use.
“THERESA!”
“What?!” Theresa demanded defensively. “Its what everyone calls her at school!”
“Still…”
Terrence was looking at the hood himself, scratching his head, then shrugging. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Fifi. She takes care of all that stuff.”
“Wha- Fifi?”
“Yeah, she’s Arcanix Racing’s director of marketing.” Terrence replied, craning his neck around. “There she is… hey, Fif… HEY FIFI!”
“TRRNC GT N TH GDDMN CR!” barked Gumbo before Fifi, whoever she was could respond. The track had gone green, and already some cars were rolling out of their pit stalls.
“Ah, dammit!” Terrence huffed. “Alright, gotta go, bye!” and he bolted to his car, leaping inside as his crew huddled around to work on getting his safety restraints, airflow, and fluids hooked up.
“Down you go, Theresa,” Wendy said, lifting Theresa off the wall and setting her down on the ground. “No way should you be up there during a live track.” Luckily, her daughter was sensible enough to not argue about that one. “Now… who’s Fifi?”
“Probably her,” Pollaski replied, pointing to a brunette woman about Wendy’s age, although much shorter and slimmer, her long dark hair shining in the sunlight. The woman was making confident strides towards her, but burst into a grin when she saw the flame haired woman, and she rushed forward, putting Wendy in an embrace.
“You must be Gwendolyn! Oh, it is SO good to finally meet you, Terrence has told me SO MUCH about you!” The woman exclaimed, squeezing the bewildered wrestler. She released Wendy and looked at her companions. “And you must be Daniel… and oh little Theresa you look JUST like your father!”
“Th…thanks?” the eight year old said, suddenly unsure of herself.
Undaunted, Fifi grabbed both of Wendy’s hands, holding them in her own. “Mmm! I already feel a connection between us! We’re going to be just like sisters!”
“Oh, well..ah… I’ve never had a sister!” Wendy responded with as much enthusiasm as she could force. She glanced to the side at her daughter, who only looked back at her, slowly revolving her finger around her ear. Wendy shot a glare, and turned back to the over-friendly brunette. “You’re… ah… Fifi?”
“Yes!” came the giggle. “Fifi Calipari, Arcanix Racing’s Director of Marketing and Sponsor Relations!” The loud sound of a roar was heard, and both women turned to watch Terrence’s car pull out of the pit box and work its way down pit road. “Oh, there he goes! So, Gwendolyn…”
“Wendy’s fine,” the redhead said quickly, “Just…just Wendy.”
“Wendy, oh what a beautiful name! Just rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? Wendy… Wendy Briese… OH MY GOD I JUST GOT IT WINDY BREEZE! Oh… that’s so clever!!!!!!”
Fifi laughed. Theresa didn’t. Pollaski didn’t. Wendy definitely didn’t, and for the first time the Brunette sensed an uneasiness in the redhead, and released her hands. “So, um… well… you wanted to see me about something?”
“Yes, well I… um…” Wendy stuttered, silently cursing herself for being unable to concentrate. “You see…”
Pollaski cleared his throat, putting on his best ‘serious talent agent’ voice. “We were under the impression that the hood of the car was going to have a picture of Wendy and two other women on it, not ah…”
“Sluttivan.”
“THERESA!”
“Oh, THAT,” Fifi said dismissively, ignoring Theresa’s quip, and her mother’s outraged rebuke. “Yes, that was in fact the original plan…”
Pollaski frowned. “Then what happened-“
“We scrapped it,” Fifi said, smiling widely.
“Wh…why?” Wendy asked, arching her eyebrows.
“Well, you see,” Fifi began, sounding as if she was giving a five-year old the birthday present she’d always dreamed of. “We’re in the middle of Black History Month, and it seemed to me that putting three of the whitest, pastiest women anyone’s ever seen on the hood just seemed… so against the spirit of the event.”
A very awkward silence followed that, with Wendy and her manager exchanging stunned glances, before Wendy looked down at her arm defensively. “I’m not THAT pale… wait.” Her head snapped up as if something had just popped into her head. “But Stephanie Sullivan isn’t even-“
“Oh, I know, dear,” Fifi said consolingly, reaching out and taking Wendy’s hand again, and giving it a sympathetic squeeze. “But the important thing is that her complexion is darker than you, or your friends, and that’s what matters.”
“I… don’t think that’s how it works… by any stretch of the imagination…” Wendy stammered.
“But it is, dear. This is marketing we’re talking about. I didn’t go to Dartmouth for four years and earn a degree in marketing to not know what I’m talking about,” Fifi’s voice was still friendly, but there was a definite note of condescension about it. “I ran this through a very tightly controlled focus group, and it’s clear that Stephanie Sullivan is ideal for our February message. She calls herself the Black Sheep. She is married and has a child by-”
Wendy couldn’t stand to hear anymore, and interrupted Fifi with a wave of her hands. “But… she and Todd aren’t… married. And even if they were, I’m not sure TODD WILLIAMS… or anyone associated with him… would be the best-“
“Oh!” Fifi, exclaimed, as she again took Wendy’s hands. “Oh, Wendy, I see that green-eyed monster of jealousy in your eyes, and, I promise you, we will find a way to get you on the the hood of your husband’s car. Maybe next month, for the Phoenix race. Right before St. Patrick’s day, we could have you dressed up like an Irish bar wench, and…”
“Why not put Caroline Stark on the hood?” Pollaski asked quickly, noticing that a little color was starting to flush in Wendy’s cheeks. “Or Jennifer Williams?”
“I don’t know who that last name is, dear.” Fifi said. “I’m sorry, I’m not really a fan of this whole ‘wrestling’ thing.” She used finger quotes. “But I did present Caroline Stark to the focus group, and they found her a little too… how can I say this… URBAN for their tastes.”
“Urban?” Wendy asked. “I don’t even know what that…”
“I’ll tell you later,” Pollaski said hurriedly. “Look, with all due respect to your..ah… ‘focus group’ here… are you sure that the… presentation you’re making is the best way to really promote this company? Because Stephanie Sullivan isn’t even ON the Pay-Per-View that’s being promoted.”
“Well, I certainly can’t be responsible for the errors clients make in regards to their product, now can I?” Fifi responded, a tad defensively. “Look, I’m sure that FFW is very, VERY good at setting up these wrestling shows and getting a few people to watch them. But after talking with their offices a couple times, it’s clear to me that they do not know how to reach a wide audience of people, and they certainly do not know anything about auto racing fans. That’s why I’m here, to do what they are not able to. And it’s hardly an ideal situation… normally I’m involved with more… marketable companies and brands. But I do love a challenge!”
“I… really don’t think you’re giving them enough credit,” Wendy responded, her voice defensive as well.
“Well, you work for them, don’t you? So I suppose I can’t blame you for being a little bit… blinded to them.” Fifi said consolingly.
Wendy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m one of their top draws.”
“And I’m sure you do a SUPER awesome job at it!” Fifi exclaimed, reaching up and gently pinching Wendy’s cheek. Suddenly, she withdrew her hand, staring in shock at the iwatch on her wrist. “Oh, my! Look at the time! I’m late for an executive meeting over at the platinum club! I’m so very sorry, but I must run. Goodbye, and it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope to see you again soon… sister!” And with that giggle, Fifi turned away and scurried off, leaving the trio behind her utterly speechless.
“Well then,” Pollaski finally said, tugging at his collar and coughing. “That was… well, enlightening.”
“I don’t like her…” Theresa said, stepping away from her mom as if expecting another rebuke.
But Wendy only sighed, “Neither do I, Theresa,” she muttered as she watched the woman quickly depart the pit box, heading towards the part of the stands that housed the luxury suites.
“Neither do I.”
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